Promises
by RalynnFrost
Summary: He keeps his promises, and so does she. She'll spend a thousand years at his side, watching, waiting. Very non-fluffy Sylaire - Rated M for explicit content and dark themes.
1. Denial

**Promises**

**Inspired by "Heavy In Your Arms" by Florence and The Machine**

"_This will be my last confession._

_I love you never felt like any blessing._

_Whispering like it's a secret only to condemn the one who hears it._

…_With a heavy heart."_

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><p><strong>Part I: Denial<strong>

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><p><strong>2013<strong>

"I'll spend the rest of my life trying to kill you."

"Shh. Don't cry," he coos in her ear, trailing a thumb down her cheek to catch the tears flowing there. His fingers have no right to be as soft as they are. He pauses for a moment to give the drop of saline on the end of his digit a curious glance before he focuses on her again and sucks it into his mouth. His eyes never leave hers as he moans, tasting the evidence of her torment.

"I'll take care of you, Claire." Deceiving palms seize her face, his fingers continuing to roam and stroke while he angles her about, forcing her to look at him through her futile struggles. The hands holding her captive give no indication of the strength they wield; of the raw power concealed within the immortal flesh. He has no right to be as gentle with her as he is.

"I'll never lie to you, or betray you." His velvety voice fills her ears as the blade slips into her palm, his fingers folding hers around the smooth metal of the handle to grasp it. "I'll never abandon you." Her father's eyes are seething with fury when Sylar takes her trembling chin, tilting her face upward to bestow a chaste kiss on her forehead. His lips and words have no right to feel as genuine as they do. "I'll never forsake you."

He laughs a laugh of cruel amusement when she shoves him away and slashes wildly at his throat through bleary vision. Her aim is true and she lands a mortal blow that leaves him temporarily gasping for breath as blood, blacker than the death following in his wake, fills his lungs. The sick gurgle of his morbid humor escapes paling lips before the wound closes, an ever lasting reminder of the eternity he is determined that they should share. She sends the steel edge of her weapon whistling through the air again and again, cutting, ripping, tearing, and sinking into his unyielding body. Flecks of crimson speckle her bronzed skin, and he allows it. Claire's fierce screams grow wild, and they both know that she's enjoying her taste of vengeance much more than she should.

Congealing pools of his life force stick beneath her feet, squishing faint sensations of cold between her toes before he stops her. Even then, it isn't really him _stopping_ her so much as the fatigue of intense emotional fallout bringing a halt to her onslaught. When he captures her wrists and pulls her into the ragged, stained remnants of his chest, barely covered with the tatters of what used to be a shirt, it is to keep her from collapsing to the floor in exhaustion and nothing else. "I'll never lead you into the hands of your enemies."

She tries to fight his control when the knife returns from where it had clattered to the floor and slides into her hand again. She wants to fight him. The fire of defiance burns as brightly in her eyes as it ever has, but her body refuses to comply. He knew what he was doing. Wearing her down. She stripped away her own ability to resist, and he allowed it. His knowing smile disgusts her more than she thought possible as it curls over perfect white canines. Feral. Wicked. Demonic.

"I'll never keep secrets from you," he whispers into her ear smoother than a lover. His hands wrap around her shoulders and knead away at the knotted muscles as though he could massage her tensions into nonexistence. "I'll never let anyone else hurt you ever again."

Claire steps over the broken bodies that once housed Sandra and Lyle. The faces of her mother and brother stare up at her in accusation, eyes glazed over and cold, but they're no longer residing within their hollowed shells. They've thankfully been allowed to move beyond the suffering that is her own fate. Noah however, remains. "I'll make sure that you're never lonely again. Maybe someday I can even show you love if you let me."

Her father's eyes widen in fear as she crouches down before him. Her head quirks to the side in the fashion of the calculating predator that Sylar will twist her into, but for now the motion is only completed under the pull of a puppet master's strings. "I'm sorry," she croaks through the raw tightening of her already sob ravaged throat. Pangs of guilt mercilessly rake her insides because she has no more tears to spare for his impending loss.

"It's okay, Claire Bear," he rasps back to her. Noah is nearly unconscious as it is, slumped awkwardly against the wall, but she doesn't want him to see it coming. She gingerly removes his blood spattered glasses and places them in his hand like a gift that she wishes she could give instead of the horror of what she doubts will be a painless end.

"I love you," they tell each other, and Sylar allows it. She waits for him to jerk her along on invisible threads, to force her to commit unspeakable atrocities, but he never does. The threat becomes clear. Noah's death is inevitable, but whether it comes from the monster, prolonged and agonizing, or swift and clean by her own hand, the choice is hers alone to make. It would be easier if he didn't give her an option, but perhaps that is the point of the exercise.

"Forgive me." Sylar mutters something under his breath that sounds like "_for I have sinned",_ but she ignores him. The tip of the blade glides through her father's chest to pierce his heart entirely too easy. Killing the man that had raised her doesn't feel anything like the stabs that she had driven into Sylar's flesh. There is no sense of justice, or righteous pleasure. No will to keep going. Only the give of muscle and bone, and then the hollow release. Not for the first time, Claire wonders if her ability has made her jaded to the human condition. It shouldn't be so simple to deprive another person of their life.

His arms wrap around her quaking form, and she's too weak to fight him. He combs his fingers through her tangled and blood-matted hair, smoothing the strands away from her face, and presses his lips to her temple in a kiss that mocks affection by its very nature. But she's too tired to resist any more for the night and drifts into sleep to the eternal rhythm of his heartbeat. "I can protect you, and keep you safe. You're mine now, and I'll take care of you." It's a promise.

Similar visits are paid to other homes of people that he views as being responsible for their conditions. Matt Parkman, Mohinder Suresh, and the last of the Petrellis. They are all condemned to death. She keeps waiting for him to exert his control over her, but he never does. There is only ever her own hands running red with the blood of her friends and family while he whispers his promises to her. She cries for hours each time, and he allows it, holding her softly into the wee hours of the morning. He has no right to comfort her the way he does.

When Angela falls to the floor into the welcomed embrace of the angels, she starts towards Peter because she already knows what is going to happen. He's clearly terrified, but he doesn't strike at her to defend himself, only pulls her into an adoring hug with a kiss that she'll remember for the rest of her days. Her dear, sweet uncle tells her that he loves her much the same as her father had, and Sylar allows it. As she raises the dripping blade to Peter's chest however, he stops her by yanking on her puppet strings and halting her arm in mid-air.

He won't make her kill Peter herself. Perhaps he worries that it will be too much and break her beyond repair. Perhaps he just wants that claim for his own. She pleads with him to let her do it, and he smiles because he knows he's won some kind of victory over her. Claire willingly crumbles in his arms, begging for the painless death her hero deserves. She shamelessly presses her lips to his in hopes of offering some incentive, or at least sacrifice. He greedily devours the motion and allows it. Peter's neck snaps in an instant with the slightest flick of a wrist that he didn't even have the time to see coming. It's a gift that he's given her. His own offering of good faith; a blessing. As he carries her tired body away she marvels at how peaceful Peter appears to be, as if he were only sleeping. He has no right to be as merciful as he has been.

**2015**

Sylar keeps her in a constant state of disoriented fatigue by staying on the move in patterns too convoluted, or erratic for her to understand. She no longer recognizes any of their surroundings and has no idea where they are, or where they've been; not even an idea of how long he's been keeping her captive. She has no family, or friends left to hope for rescue from. She has no money, shoes, or clothing except for that on her back which he allows her. He's managed to completely isolate her so that she's entirely dependent on his care which he happily provides with a grotesque smile and a wicked twinkle in his eye. But it doesn't stop her from fighting him; from trying to escape.

He tracks her through the trees of an ice-laden woodland, sparkling in the waning sunlight like a crystalline palace of fantasy. Her bloodied footprints lead him along a macabre trail in the snow. For a brief period, he wishes that she wouldn't make the pursuit so easy. He wants the challenge of a descent hunt; a game of genuine skill and cunning. That feeling doesn't last long. Years of his predatory stalking shadow her life. Claire is no fool.

She waits patiently under the blankets of frost, her body temperature lowered, her lungs void of air, and her pulse slowed, barely lingering on the fringes of consciousness until he approaches. She can hear him pause, shifting his weight over a drift as he twists around to locate her stealthy position. "Claire…" he calls out to her tauntingly. "I can hear you, Claire. You can't hide from me."

"I was counting on it," she stammers through deathly blue lips. The muscles that should be shrieking for mercy from their coiled tension release the sapling that serves her as an ambush tactic. Claire doesn't stop to see whether her makeshift trap is successful or not. As soon as the air fills with the echoes of slurred curses she's bolting back through the forest as quickly as her frostbitten limbs can carry her. It's not fast enough. It's never fast enough.

**2016**

At night he leads her to bed and crawls in beside her. He hasn't tried to touch her yet, but his presence is repulsive enough. Claire musters every ounce of strength and will available in her body, and she flails at him. She punches, kicks, scratches, and bites. She pushes him down, finding a blade spirited into her hand, and strikes with everything she's got left. She cries and screams, spews obscenities, and venomous words of pure hate while she releases rivers of his blood from violently torn flesh. And he allows it because she's only playing further into his hands. When her body gives out in exhaustion he scoops her up into his arms and brings her back to bed so that she falls asleep securely in his arms with his heartbeat in her ears. He has no right to prey on her needs the way he does.

**To be continued…**


	2. Bargaining

**Part II: Bargaining**

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><p><strong>2018<strong>

"It would be easier if you could hurt again, wouldn't it?" he asks taking her hands into his own. She refuses to look at him and he sighs. "I can fix that. I can fix _you_, Claire, if you let me." He gives her time to think over his proposal as they move through their routines, him showering her with bittersweet promises as she rips him apart night after night. When screams cool the veins of any potential listeners in the darkness they are only her own even though he has yet to touch her. She wonders if it's a part of her conditioning, some kind of Stockholm Syndrome, but she almost wants to believe him. Almost.

**2019**

He asks her again a year later. "I can make you _feel_ again, Claire. I can give you your pain back." She becomes confused when she relents and he leads her into the bathroom. She doesn't understand why he's filling the tub, or why he places her into the tepid water without removing her clothing. Sylar compels her to sleep before shoving her head under the water, effectively shutting her down until he wishes otherwise. Once the bubbles have stopped rising to the surface he sets to work.

Claire wakes up hours later and he's there stroking the back of her hand with his fingers, studying her expectantly. The water in the tub has turned a particularly vibrant shade of red. She winces when she discovers a small plastic tube leading out of her side to drain the fluid from her lungs. A sharp wave of pain ripples through her body when she removes it, gasping as the wound closes and the sensation subsides. He did it. She pinches herself and the sting has a clarity to it that brings a tear to her eye because she hasn't been able to appreciate simply being human for so long. It isn't only about the pain though. The water is freezing cold and she can feel the full extent of it. Her butt is excruciatingly numb, and her spine aches from leaning against the hard porcelain of the tub for an extended period of time. She can feel it _all_ again. He has no right to be as honest with her as he is.

Claire wonders though, _why_? Not only did he restore her capacity to hurt when she needs to, but he chose to spare her the horror of having his fingers pillage her brain matter for answers a second time. Her mouth fumbles for something to say that isn't acidic and Sylar nods in quiet acknowledgment of the unspoken. He places her knife on the counter before he leaves and doesn't say a word about the blood-curdling screams that rip from her throat afterward. He has no right to understand her as well as he does.

She is genuinely happy for the first time in more years than she cares to remember. Not even the sight of Sylar waiting for her in their bed can ruin that. She sighs knowing that she'll end up there between those sheets next to him in spite of any resistance she manages to put up, so she crawls into position voluntarily. She doesn't fight him that night, and she only flinches once when his arms twine around her. He smiles because he knows that he's won some kind of victory over her.

Perhaps Claire doesn't have to wonder why he would do such a thing for her though. The skin he touches reacts instantly, blood rising to the surface in a heated flush that bursts frazzled nerves into life. He doesn't tease her, doesn't stroke, or caress, or insinuate, but she feels him. _All_ of him. From the coarse hairs on his legs that tickle her ankles, to the moist breath on her neck, and the scrape of a stubbled jaw against her cheek. His body is warm beside hers and her mind becomes painfully aware of their exact proximity. In the end though she drifts into sleep, untainted, like any other night. It's a process he knows. Slow and steady. For the immortal there is no desperate rush.

**2020**

Hope reignites in her weary soul with a fury when Peter unexpectedly reappears nearly a year later. "Claire?" a familiar voice whispers from the shadows. Her coffee mug slips from her hand to shatter on the spotless tiles of their kitchen floor.

"Peter?" She should have known that he wouldn't give up so easily, transferring her power to himself and resurrecting after being left behind. There is no mere coincidence that her uncle has come on the first day that Sylar has left her home alone, trusting her. He has been consuming every last one of his remaining resources for seven years to track them; to rescue her.

"We have to go, _now_," he declares, boldly stepping out from his hiding space.

"But…" Claire isn't quite sure what she wants to say as the shock sets in. She was so sure that he had been dead for all that time; that they _all _had been. That no one would be coming for her. That escape would never be possible.

"It's okay, Claire. He's gone. I've been watching for an hour to make sure that he isn't coming back, but we have to go now." Peter drags her along by the arm, his frantic fear of lost opportunity causing his grip to become painfully tight. She knows that he doesn't mean to hurt her, but the minor detail adds to the surrealism of the situation. In seven impossibly long years Sylar has never physically abused her as much.

Sylar snarls with murderous intentions when he comes home to find her missing. Seeing her broken cup scattered over the tile floor sparks a flame of fear. He calls out to her, listening for the sound of any pin dropping that might indicate her presence, but there is none. One touch of the shattered porcelain reveals to him the reemergence of his only true threat. The duo hadn't managed to gain much distance before he finds her again, affectionately snuggled into the Petrelli's arms for protection from her personal nightmare. He has no right to feel jealousy as he does.

"You have no idea what you've done," he growls at Peter. They had been able to settle into a life of comfortable routine that hadn't involved blood or torment since the night that Sylar had gifted her with the pain that she craved. She had stopped crying when he held her at night; started eating and drinking without the need for his control. She hadn't attempted to escape. Hadn't even promised to murder him in his sleep for months. They had made real progress. But the hope that Peter unwittingly brought along with his bumbling heroics had ruined it all. Destroyed their lives together; shredded it into pieces, and then set it ablaze. He would have to start from scratch with Claire, and it would take even longer if ever again to achieve as much as he had.

Déjà vu sweeps over them as she falls to her knees and begs for Peter's life. Her pleas seem to fall on deaf ears as he holds her suffocating uncle aloft, but his head is turned ever so slightly to the side. Somewhere in those dark recesses he's considering. Claire is mildly surprised that she's beginning to learn his little nuisances so well.

"What's it worth to you, Claire? Peter's life? What kind of bargain are you willing to strike with the devil?" Panic and desperation flood through her, and he smiles because he knows that he's winning some kind of victory over her.

"Me," she whispers through the tears of refreshed grief. "My life for his."

And so the deal is struck. Peter falls to the earth sputtering for breath and cursing Sylar for all he's worth. He lunges to attack once the other man's back is turned, and Claire's screams fill the air. Sylar is far too practiced in evasion and easily dodges the Petrelli's strikes. He wraps Peter in his arms as though he were in the act of granting a familial hug, but the embrace causes him to cry out in strangled pain. He slumps to the ground a second time, features etched with surprise and fear.

"A parting gift from dear Papa Petrelli," Sylar sneers. In that moment she realizes that he holds the key to stripping her of her ability, rendering her mortal, and vulnerable - able to die. She knows that he keeps his promises and will honor their accord, exchanging her life for that of her uncle's, but hope springs eternal that one day he will grow bored with her and exercise that power to end her misery. "For the rest of your life you're safe. From _me_ at least." It's a promise, and he keeps his promises. Peter will live, weak and powerless as it were, but alive.

She doesn't welch on their deal for fear of Peter's life hanging in some precarious balance with her bargain. Sylar will have her life for however long it may be, but that doesn't stop her from pushing him. She drives him to the edge of his patience every night with vows that he might own her, but can never _have_ her. She hisses words of acidic loathing, and he allows it. She strategically claws at his invulnerable flesh to cause him pain rather than to release her own. He knows that she's holding back so that she won't be too tired to fend him off later when he deems it time to retire for the evening. She's getting smarter, and he allows it because the rules change, but the game remains the same.

He can hear her muffled weeping as she tosses and turns on the floor, unable to sleep. She's cold, and the silence is deafening. The piercing sound of loneliness. He promised her that she would never have to be alone again so he creeps to her side in the darkness. At first she's unaware of his presence, but as her eyes grow heavier, subconsciously drifting to the steady rhythm of a heartbeat as eternal as her own, she flails out into the vacant space. Her fists lash against his body when she finds him, and she screams to vent her frustrations. "You killed them! You killed my family! My friends!"

"No, Claire. I didn't. _You_ killed them."

Her fury stumbles for a moment. "You made me do it! You sick, sadistic bastard! You _made_ me kill them!"

"No, Claire. I didn't. I never forced you to do anything." Sylar crushes her to his chest, sweeping away rogue locks of hair and tears that cling to her youthful cheeks. "That's the difference between us, Claire. You only kill the ones you love." She wails for all the grief and pain in her heart, and pounds her tiny fists against him some more, kicking, and shrieking while he holds her close. "You're a monster just like me. You're _my_ monster." His promises are whispered into her ears smoother than a lover with a fresh addition. "I'll always forgive you."

**2030**

She adopts a deadened look of defeat and resignation in her eyes over the next decade, spending her days doing everything in her power to ignore him; to pretend that he doesn't exist. That he isn't worth her time to acknowledge. It infuriates him more than anything else she can do, and he follows after her relentlessly doing everything in _his_ power to vie for her attentions; to bring the light of life back into her. He brings her flowers and gifts to be left by the wayside. He brings her food and water to be left uneaten and undrank. He brings her jewels to be untouched, and clothes to be left unworn.

He chews his bottom lip as he watches her staring out the open window with crossed arms and glazed features. She hasn't moved a muscle in over a week, and if he hadn't carried her to bed and fallen asleep to the sound of her heart each night he would be afraid that she had found a way to die without letting him know about it. But perhaps she has found a way to die because she sure as hell isn't living. Sylar gives her an experimental jolt of electricity. Her muscles involuntarily contract, but otherwise she shows no recognition of the action. The "indestructible" girl has been thoroughly broken, and now he wants, no, _needs_ to fix her.

A significant part of him is disappointed when he leaves her alone for the second time since taking her captive and returns only to find her still faithfully playing the part of a statue beside the window. Sylar sighs and scoops her up into his arms, taking her to their bed. Breaking routine does nothing to affect her stone-like temperament. He roams his fingers over her lips and down her neck to trace over her delicate collar bones before wrapping strands of amber blonde around them. "Come back to me, Claire." He ghosts his lips over hers still noting a lack of reaction. His fingers tip-toe down her chest between her breasts to the knot of her robe and untie it to expose her underwear-clad body beneath. "Come back to me," he whispers in her ear as he doodles aimlessly on her stomach and around the protruding bones of her hips.

She turns her face away from him, further fueling his need to provoke her livelihood. Sylar runs the palm of his hand over the top of her thigh and kneads the muscle, dropping doting kisses along her jaw and down her neck, receiving the faintest of throaty noises as a reward for his efforts. "Come back to me," he commands her skin as his nose skims lightly along the line of her jugular which pulses just a little harder. "Come back to me, Claire."

He draws a whimper from her when his fingers tread a perilous course over the top of her panties. "I can make you feel, Claire. I can make you come alive again if you let me." He divests himself of his shirt, flinging the garment carelessly over his shoulder, and climbs on top of her so that their skin can brush together. Sylar runs his hands down her sides, gripping her hips to hold her in place while he makes a curious thrusting motion against her. The deadened fade of her eyes flickers for the briefest of moments with neurons and nerves reigniting, and he smiles because he knows he's winning some kind of victory over her.

His hand slowly slips beneath the border of her underwear, and a finger skims along the sensitive flesh concealed there. He hears the gasp first and then the resounding _smack _of her palm colliding with the side of his face in a slap that rattles his teeth and reverberates behind his eyes. He laughs in spite of the sharp sting and drops his finger to her entrance delighting in her squeal of hostile surprise. Claire swats wildly at his face and chest, and he allows it because her face is burning with righteous fury again.

"You came back to me, Claire." He crashes his mouth violently on top of hers in time with the slip of his digit and happily swallows the muffled groan of her confused state of arousal and sheer panic. Her eyes open wide when he combines the flair of an exploratory finger and another thrust of his hips. Suddenly her heads drops back onto a pillow and she's clutching at his shoulders, nails digging into the skin, as his thumb works her in conjunction with his previous motions. Her breathing grows shallow and he can feel the tension building in her body. "Just let go, Claire. You don't have to be brave for anyone right now. Just let it go."

No one has ever touched her this way before, and he knows that she hates him for being the first. But if he can't have her affections, then her devoted rage will have to do. "Just let it go, Claire," he pants in her ear. And then she does.

Her lips spread over bared teeth and her eyes squish shut in a silent scream. She shudders against him while her toes attempt to curl the wrong direction and it might be the most beautiful thing he's ever seen her do. Laughing at that particular time however, is not the wisest decision he's ever made. As with all things, Claire's body recovers quickly, and she comes out of the throws of her orgasm swinging. Sylar lands on the floor with a heavy thud, tasting the iron of blood in his mouth, but regardless of how many blows the half-naked wild woman above him can land, the irritatingly smug grin will not be removed from his face. He has no right to navigate her body as well as he does.

**To be continued…**


	3. Depression

**Part III: Depression**

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><p><strong>2031<strong>

Another year flies by in the blink of an immortal eye and Claire forgets his lesson about escaping to the mental closet that hides her from him. Sylar knows that deadened glaze look to her eyes all too well and decides that it's time for a refresher course with a twist. "Come back to me, Claire," he prods with a firm rubbing of her shoulders. She shakes him away with a half-hearted grunt and he clicks his tongue at her in disapproval.

After carrying her to their bed, he strips her of her robe before discarding his own clothing. She refuses to look at him when he sprawls out on top of her, but there's a noticeable trembling in her shoulders when his hands run the length of her body. The straps of her bra slide away and her eyes clench shut, her bottom lip being sucked between her teeth so violently that a little trickle of blood seeps from the corner of her mouth. She makes a noise of blatant disgust when he flicks his tongue out to taste the crimson droplet. He never forces her, but her own body betrays her as her legs spread of their own accord under the fingers tip-toeing over the top of her panties. It isn't like the last time when he allowed her to remain protected by her undergarments. No, this time Sylar wants to see what he touches.

Her breasts lay bare before him as the bra is spirited away. A gasp slips unbidden from her lips when he tenderly massages the pale flesh leaving a pink flushing to spread in the wake of the intimate caresses. No, it isn't like the last time at all. There is no vindictive mirth to his eyes, or sadistic humor in his voice, only a lustful darkening of hungrily dilated pupils and ragged, husky drawl. His thumbs hook around the sides of her underwear and the fear tightening her chest is deliciously palpable. He flashes a feral grin full of wicked intentions and he appears all of the monster that he is to her. But none of that can stop the traitorous craving for attention in her hormone-riddled body that she so desperately tries to repress. Her eyes automatically shy away when his own underwear falls to the floor in a heap with the other clothing. He delights in her last vestige of innocence.

"Please don't do this," she pleads with a choked sob.

Sylar slides above her and she hates how aware her body is of his, even more than she despises him. "Shh, don't cry," he cooes to her, reminiscent of the day that he came to take her. "I won't hurt you." Pressure begins to grow at her entrance and the tears spill over her lashes to _pit, pat_ on the pillow, but when he moves forward the pressure disappears and in its place is the not entirely unpleasant sensation of his hardened length gliding over her. He has no right to keep his promises to her the way he does.

He treasures all of the little noises that he coaxes from her writhing body as his fingers work her senses into a frenzy. Low groans issue from his throat with his own rocking motions against her. "Claire," he mumbles through thinly restrained temptation. Their sweat mingles together. Her muscles are winding up and she's gritting her teeth, thrashing to get away from him, but the invisible bonds of his power grip her hips to hold her in place. "Don't fight it, Claire. You don't have to be a fighter right now. Just let it go," he rasps before detaching his lips from her neck to take a breast.

She can't breathe. His body is hot and heavy on top of hers, untiring and relentless. He won't let her go until she gives in the way he wants her to. And then she doesn't have a choice anymore because her frazzled nerves are combusting all on their own, seeking the release that she's reluctant to grant. He doesn't move away once she's finished. Instead he continues to move over her at his own fevered pace, his fingers still resting within her and threatening to reignite the burn. His head drops to the crook of her neck when he's done and his pants sound strangely like an unspoken vow. He moves his lips to hers, whispering his promises and she bites him savagely before he can add another to the growing list. Sylar laughs darkly through the tang of blood and pulls her into his embrace so that she can fall asleep with the sound of his heartbeat in her ears. Possessive. Protective. He has no right to hold her the way he does.

**2091**

Sixty years pass as quickly as their homes and names change. They alone remain independent of time's ticks and tocks while the bodies surrounding them age and wear. Oddly enough, Sylar doesn't gain the feeling of triumph that he expected he would have when Peter withers away. Instead he suffers the irritating poke and prod of a splinter of remorse in his heart. The last person from "their" world is gone, free from the bounds of earth they are damned to walk forever.

Claire's fingers streak over the glossy black planes of polished wood and silver hardware before creeping into the depths of white satin padding. Hot tears prickle her eyes when the lightly bronzed skin of her eternally youthful hand finds the cool, chalky wrinkles of his. A half-hearted smile tugs at the corner of her mouth when she muses about still being able to find Peter beneath the crinkled exterior. She wishes she could see his eyes open just one more time, to see the jubilant warmth, the love, and the compassion. Just one more time.

Sylar is there to pick up the pieces of her heart before it can even break. His hands find her shoulders to comfort, and his lips locate her cheek to kiss away the tear before it can fall. "Shh. Don't cry." He reaches for Peter's ancient hand and Claire tries to stop him. He has no right to make a connection with a man whose death may as well have been his to claim. But it isn't a motion to vandalize or disturb the body of her fallen hero as she fears. "Trust me," he whispers into her ear as flashes of another lifetime blaze through her mind.

Dreamy visions of Peter tacking photos and maps to a wall begin the tale of her uncle's legacy. Claire watches as he bumps into a shy blonde woman, flashing the poor unsuspecting girl with his most charming sideways grin. They play a piano together as they talk and laugh. He kisses her at the end of their first date, and then at the end of a church aisle while people cheer and toss flower petals at them with bells chiming in the distance. Peter struts around a nursery late at night with heavy circles under his eyes, but an adoring smile for the infant bundled in his arms. He feigns allergies to conceal the tear that wants to trickle from the corner of his eye as he says goodbye to his son on the first day of school, and then again when a cloud of graduation caps fill the air. He shouts with paternal pride on the sidelines of college ball games. "Allergies" strike when another diploma makes its way into eager hands, and once more when it becomes the son's turn to march a beautiful woman down the sacred path of matrimony. Peter might finally admit to crying when his grandson arrives, but he's too busy declaring the fact to anyone that will listen and even a few that don't. He lives long enough to watch himself become a great-great-grandfather, and to bury his wife of over fifty years.

It's a long and happily fulfilled life that Claire is allowed a glimpse into. And at the end of it, Peter was still tacking up pictures and sketches, adding dots to any of a collection of maps. He had never given up on finding her.

She heaves openly with cracked sobs, but her grief has already been released. They're tears of gratefulness and Sylar's shirt becomes soaked through with them when he pulls her closer. He has no right to give her such gifts.

He glides over her like any other night, teasing her body's senses; only it isn't like all the other nights where he only rests atop her. The pressure on her entrance increases instead of ebbing away and he drops his mouth to ghost over hers. A pause passes in silence before he allows his lips to take hers. She doesn't fight him. She doesn't cry out or flinch away because he knew what he was doing. Conditioning her. Desensitizing her. Wearing her down.

"Please, Sylar." She isn't even sure what she's really asking of him, but he knows what she needs. To be _alive_. To feel.

"Say my name."

"Gabriel." For the first time Claire is the one initiating their kiss, glossing her lips over his tenderly where before he would have only been met by gnashing teeth. "Please, Gabriel." He doesn't smile, but he knows that he's won some kind of victory over her.

Their fingers intertwine as he pushes forward, slipping within her, stealing her innocence. "I'll never lie to you, or betray you," he vows as her eyes open wide. "I'll never abandon you, or forsake you." He lifts her thighs to wrap around his waist earning him whimpers that are musical rewards to his ears. "I'll never lead you into the hands of your enemies. I'll never keep secrets from you. I'll never let anyone else hurt you, _ever_."

Ragged gasps issue from both of them in tandem as their bodies slowly slide together. "I'll make sure that you're never lonely again." Dainty hands curl around his shoulders to hold him closer. "I'll always forgive you." His promises ring truthfully in her ears throughout the chorus of moans. "I'll always be there for you." Her body coils tighter around him, muscles winding with tension that causes his teeth to sink into his bottom lip viciously. The tang of iron accompanies dancing tongues while nervous flesh heals around the crescent punctures of fingernails.

Sylar drops his mouth to greedily devour her neck before taking the shuddering breath that will utter the words it has taken him over seventy years to be allowed to speak. "I'll always love you." It's a promise, and he keeps his promises.

They both come undone, vision temporarily blinded and toes curled while muscles spasm at random. He pulls her into his arms to watch her thundering arteries calm under sweat-glistened skin, and listen to her haggard breathing slow into the melodic pace of slumber. A hand clutches loosely at his chest, searching fingers finding his. She sighs contentedly in her sleep causing a genuine smile to tear across his features. She has no right to find comfort in him the way she does.

A month passes before he finds her in the bathtub, scrubbing her flesh away so vigorously that the water has turned a pastel pink of floating blood tendrils. He suspects that she's attempting to cleanse herself of him when she does this, and he wonders if she even remembers why anymore. All the same, Sylar decides to take her again, a reminder that she belongs to him, with him, and _only_ him. A reminder that while her sensitivities are whole, _he_ is the one that makes her _feel_.

She doesn't even bat an eye when he divests himself of his clothing and slips into the tepid water with her, tugging her into his arms until she rests on his lap, their chests flush together. A low chuckle rumbles in his throat. Her innocence may have been lost, but her skin still blushes under his touch. His humor quickly subsides though when she becomes the instigator and the tables are turned. Claire knows their routine and she plays through it without a second thought. It's become a part of her nature because that's the way he's programmed her to be.

Soft lips trail treacherous pathways over his neck, slim fingers lacing in his hair to lock him in place while teeth tug playfully at an ear. Sylar pulls at her hair to attack her mouth with ferocious vigor when a curious hand leads him into her. The water laps at the edges at the tub in perfect time with their rhythmic rocking. He whispers his promises to her mindlessly, not stopping to take stalk of who really belongs to whom now.

"I love you," he huffs into the matted blonde locks his face in buried in. "I love you. I love you. I love you." He's not entirely sure that he can remember what life was like without her anymore.

**2271**

One hundred and eighty years breeze by them hosting a variety of catastrophic and absurd spectacles. They watched together as nature and disease ravaged the human race. Volcanic eruptions ripped sea floors asunder, swallowing islands whole so that entire races and civilizations were lost to history. Skyrocketing populations forced governments to institute controlled breeding environments which only a selected few of valuable aptitudes would be taken to participate in. Violence rocked densely packed cities causing untold millions to disappear in mob riots of the disenfranchised. Dictators and empires rose and fell around them to the steady drum beat of time that only they could hear. They even witnessed together, hand in hand, as mankind took their first tenuous steps out into the great black of the universe with burgeoning colonies on the surface of outer planets as well as launchings of brave pilgrims in colossal exploratory ships.

It is on one such night, in the smoky haze of ashen air, and the dull orange ambience of a burning metropolis, that they gaze down upon the scurrying mobs in the streets from their lofty tower view. His hand extends out from his side and his searching fingers find hers automatically, seeking comfort in the familiar pulse. She has no right to grant him reassurance the way she does.

"I can't remember what the stars look like anymore."

Sylar quirks a contemplative brow while he mulls over the implications of such a statement. "Neither can I. Would you like to?"

Claire grasps his arm as he leaves her side to go in search of some trinket that might contain souvenir memories. "I don't want memories that feel like they're from someone else's life."

"Claire, it isn't exactly safe to go flying anymore. Even for _us_. One hit from -"

"I don't want to go flying either. It's not the same anymore."

His nostrils flare. Her petulance tries his patience, but after a moment's thought he comes to an insinuated conclusion not of his own making. "I suppose we could go off Terra… If you wanted." She bites her tongue to keep the grin of mischief at bay. Spending a few centuries with the man has made her an expert at planting suggestions in his mind that will later seemingly bloom into his own ideas.

"I guess," she huffs with an exaggerated sigh. "We've probably seen all there is to see of this place. Who knows, maybe you can find some entertainment studying guidance systems or something?" And that is the hammer's blow to send the nail home. The prospect of learning anything new instantly reignites his _hunger_ causing Sylar's eyes to darken with primal enthusiasm.

That night she makes love to him with more vigor and passion than either can remember having shared in over a hundred years. She hovers over him, ghosting caresses over his skin, teasing his senses, and taunting his nerves. She drives him to the brink over and over again without release, torturously building his desire. Fingers of iron strength sink into the flesh of her hips until blood is drawn and he can't withstand the sadistic pleasure anymore. Shrill, savage screams pierce the air. Claire can't remember a time where she was ever without Sylar at her side anymore, and she doesn't understand why she can't shake the mental image of ejecting him from an airlock into the great black. Or why she enjoys it.

He leads her by the hand through stifling crowds when they're turn to board the _Poseidon_ comes. Not for the first time, she notes the way others naturally move to the side for them to pass, shying away from Sylar out of some instinctual predatory avoidance. Perhaps they would be safer in a world that didn't have him in it, if only a little bit.

They relinquish their boarding passes to a disgruntled gatekeeper and step out onto the loading dock. He's completely entranced by the twisted puzzles of whirring gadgetry and doesn't notice when she covers her ears against the thundering onslaught of machinery. She can see his lips moving as he points excitedly and can still hear him prattling away without being able to distinguish the sound of his voice amongst the cacophony of alien noise. Fellow passengers are herded around them like mindless cattle to the slaughter, coughing, wheezing, and scratching. For them anywhere is better than Earth. The stars offer refuge. Hope. It is the same for her, but hardly for the same reasons.

Hydraulic lifts take them to the final platform with signs boasting of last opportunities to turn back. Powered doors slide open with a harsh whistle of air. Claire takes care to dawdle just long enough that they become the last in line. He's still too preoccupied turning this way and that to take in all of the lights and electronics to notice. He's behaving as though he were a deprived child set free in the candy store and it brings a sad little smile to her lips. He'll be a slave to his own curiosities.

At the last possible second she jerks her hand free of his. Panic paints his features when he turns back and panes of indestructible glass separate them. The vault-like doors are locked and there is no breaking the seal again until the ship's destination is reached. She isn't accustomed to seeing fear in his eyes, but at that moment stark terror is quite vibrantly displayed as he fruitlessly shouts and collides his fists against the glass on this other side. Palms press against the translucent barrier in a reluctant farewell and an inexplicable tear slips unbidden from her remorseless lashes. She has no right to cry over him the way she does.

**To be continued…**


	4. Anger

**Part IV: Anger**

* * *

><p><strong>2296<strong>

Claire spreads her arms wide as she inhales the briny sea breeze. Pebbles scatter beneath her bare feet to clatter along the rocks below before plopping into the crests of ocean waves that crash against them. Twenty-five years have passed since she watched the monstrosity of steel and glass containing him blast a hole in the overcast sky on the heels of white-hot energy emissions. Twenty-five revolutions around the sun. Fifty equinoxes and solstices. One hundred cycles of season. Three hundred risings of a new moon. And she hasn't been able to sleep for a wink of it.

Cold, hot, silence, noise, outdoors, or in… partners, or none, something is always off sequence, out of order, or just plain missing whenever she closes her eyes. Her body may not actually require the rest, but the fatigue never dissipates. _He_ never dissipates.

Chilled air rushes past her, stinging her eyes as she hurdles toward the sea. The frosty waves lap over her body, the undertow threatening to drag her out into an endless expanse of crushing blue, splashing up her nostrils and down the passages of her throat, cleansing. But he's still there creeping through her veins and just behind her eyelids like a pestilence that doesn't end.

Compulsion alone brings her back to the surface, one singular thought allowed to echo through her mind, an invisible force not of her own creation drawing her muscles to break waves. A silent call that offers no choice other than to be heeded. She crawls onto the sandbar hacking and spluttering for breath that she's not even sure she needs, or wants for that matter. Scraping her mussed locks from her eyes, a vision greets her that sends adrenaline to pummel her heart like she hasn't known in any age that could be considered recent. Too vivid to be a hallucinogenic work of fiction there he is, sunbathing on a nearby rock with his chin tilted up to catch diminished rays. "Sylar?"

"I couldn't sleep," he tells her. Dark purple bruises haunt the hollows of his eyes like death; like hers. "It felt like it took forever to get back to you." He chuckles to himself without humor. "We know a little something about 'forever' don't we?" Indeed they do.

White granules of coarse sands stick to their flesh when they take each other on the shallow strip of beach as though a single day of separation had never occurred. "I love you," he whispers to the skin of her neck with each rise and fall of their bodies. Claire admits to missing him, lacing her fingers through his hair, but an admission of love has never crossed her lips. "I'll always come back for you," he mumbles from the fringes of consciousness. It's a promise, and he keeps his promises. Locked in one another's embrace they fall into sleep to the bittersweet drumbeat of eternity coursing through their veins.

**2300**

Chiming bells and showers of rose petals accompany the words that only they truly understand. "Until death do us part," he declares with an ironic smirk.

"Until death do us part," she agrees quietly.

Death weighs heavily on her mind while he leads her through curtains of snow white lace and silk sheets. He chose golden bands in accordance with a tradition that has been extinct for nearly two centuries because the symbolism has become unique to them in all the world just as they themselves are. Two parts to a whole. A matching set. But the historical use of jewelry isn't enough for him. It stings slightly when his use of imprinting brands their spoken vows, inky black, around her finger with permanence. "Until death do us part," he mutters again, hissing his breath as the letters swirl into formation on his own digit. Yet another promise that she knows he'll keep, but she can't help wondering just how much he really remembers of their past; or how much she's supposed to remember. Something stirs in the back of her mind. Something long lost that she knows must be important. Something… _wrong_. His lips crash against hers urgently and the idea is brushed from the surface of her mind as quickly as it came. She has no right to accept his devotion the way she does.

**2352**

He's beside himself watching her belly grow. Deceiving palms splay possessive fingers over the rounding structure of her body. He presses his ear against her and sighs contentedly at the internal echoes of another being that they've brought life to.

A piece of him. A piece of her. Two halves of a whole that wriggles and coos in the bundle of blankets he holds gingerly to his chest. Possessive. Protective.

"What should we call him?"

"Noah." It's the first name that comes to her mind.

Sylar scrunches his eyebrows for a moment, crinkling and contorting his features in dark concentrated thought. "Noah…" He looks into the face of his newborn son and says the name aloud. A slow smile creeps over his lips and the gentle gleam in his eyes is enchanting. "Noah," he repeats again as tiny fingers wrap around one of his.

**2356**

She knew better. Something dark and ominous had itched in the back of her mind since the night he was born. Their lives had been too comfortable, too happy, and too perfect. They knew that he wasn't like them. That he hadn't inherited their immortality. That one day, unlike them, he would move on from the planes of earth that they were damned to share for all eternity. But it wasn't supposed to happen so soon. He was supposed to grow and learn, scrape his knees and make friends, find a mate… He was supposed to watch his own children come into their own. He was supposed to age into an old man and pass peacefully in his sleep while they looked on, holding hands with him catching her tears as they fell. It wasn't supposed to be like this.

Claire knew better. She loved her son, but knew better than to get too close to what she knew would only ever be lost. And yet, her heart aches and yearns for yesterday as she watches her grief stricken counterpart mourn the death of their child.

Chants of revolution were once again in the air. Flames filled the streets, licking at the falling flakes of snow. Percussive force cracked the foundations of their home as the bombs descended from the heavens above. She clutched her terrified son tightly to her chest, protectively shielding his tiny body with her own as best she could while Sylar had focused his energies on maintaining the integrity of structures that would have otherwise collapsed upon them. Even as a trail of dark crimson trickled from his nostrils with the strain, he continued to exert himself, mentally willing their world to hold together as it pressed heavier and heavier upon his shoulders. It wasn't enough.

Inevitably, all was consumed in a brilliant flash of dazzling light so much brighter than the sun. Walls of super-heated winds crushed everything in their path, pulverizing body and building before it could be incinerated. They don't even have a body to bury. Noah's little bones had been instantly vaporized in the first blast wave.

Ash sizzles the freshly created skin, still pink as it winds and wraps around her muscle tissues. She wants so desperately to comfort him, but as Sylar sobs in the dampness of frost that cannot touch the seared ground only bitter vengeance reigns in her heart. She screams for all the pain and grief in the world. She screams for all the lost love converted to hate. She screams for everything that she has known and lost in a life too long for any human being to bare. Freshly regenerated memories twist their way through furiously firing synapses, and blood blacker than death spills over her lips as she continues to howl into the night, her vocal cords forming and reforming as they are continuously torn apart.

**2407**

He doesn't touch her anymore. They've barely even spoken since the night their son disintegrated in her arms. A part of her blames him for Noah's death. If he had been stronger, more powerful, he would have been able to save them. If he had never given her a child in the first place…

A part of him blames _her_ for Noah's death. If she had passed on her genes for regeneration, if she had held him tighter, shielded him more… If she had never given him a son then he wouldn't have failed to protect them.

Claire doesn't even flinch anymore as he spills the blood of their enemies, ripping abilities from the skulls of the innocent and guilty alike until the dirt around their feet pools with the rivers of death that they leave in their wake. Her pistols fire as rapidly as they can be reloaded, tearing souls from their owners. His telekinetic claws rake into the flesh of any mortal brave or unfortunate enough to cross his path. Metal clatters to the ground as she relinquishes her weapons in favor of something more primal. Blades primed for combat slash and whistle through the air amidst the shrieks for mercy. Arches of lightning crackle through skin and bone. Their crusade is ruthless. His promises have become hollow, and yet the pain of hate binds him to them more than ever.

**2465**

One hundred and nine years have revolved around them before the drums of war dissipate into the holographic textbooks of history students. One hundred and nine years since their campaign began, cutting swaths of terror across continents and country sides, burning the homes of their foes, and ravaging their peoples into quiet submission. She's pitifully ashamed to think that she only barely clings to the reason they began their march of death. The memory of her little boy haunts the fringes of her subconscious, but she can't quite remember what he looked like anymore. In the void of her love for him that scars her heart is a bitter cluster of self-loathing that she knows _he_ shares in equal portions.

Their guilt and pain has morphed into a mutually abusive relationship. When they make physical contact, it is only with the brief intention to cause injury. When they speak, it is only with abrasive words of acidic nature. And yet, the more they hate one another, the more they need each other.

"Don't walk away from me," he shouts after her, gripping her arm with enough force to turn the skin a sickly purple shade of broken blood vessels.

"Why? What are you going to do to me, Sylar? Yell at me? Hit me?" Claire jerks her arm away from him, successfully popping the joint in the process. She snorts at him with disdain and continues to stalk away in the opposite direction.

Her body locks up, bound by the control of the puppet master. Sylar appears in front of her more furious than she's seen for decades. "Maybe I'll just give you some more of that pain you need so much." An invisible hand reaches into her chest to grasp her heart and give it an abusive squeeze. She chokes on the blood filling her lungs, sputtering for air through a constricted throat. All she can think about are the impulses traveling along her nervous system to command her limbs to thrash against his control, but her body refuses to respond. "You think I don't know what you do at night, Claire? Holing up in your little tent and cutting yourself to ribbons. Trying to cut out your own heart before you pass out. Practically fucking yourself with your own knife."

"Somebody has to do it because you sure as hell haven't."

Sylar roars like a beast of old at the sarcastic venom in her voice causing the earth beneath their feet to rumble angrily. "Maybe I've had enough of your shit for the last dozen lifetimes or so. Maybe I'll just kill you and finally get some fucking peace!" His palm flies to her chest, exercising an ability she hasn't seen used in ages. A bright golden glow filters out from the edges of his hand. Claire screams, feeling as though her soul were being ripped from her flesh, her immortality draining from her weary bones.

Blackness fades from her vision after a moment. He's still there, studying her curiously, something strangely akin to remorse in his eyes. The emotion is alien on his features.

"What's wrong, baby? Couldn't go through with it?" she snarks at him in rasps, her body still constricted in his threads. He scoffs at her, almost daring her to try pushing him further, which of course she does. "Still impotent I see." A vicious sneer crosses her lips to mock him. "That's right. I know what you do at night too, Sylar. All the girls in the camp talk about it. Poor baby can't get it u-"

"Maybe I'll show you exactly what it is I do," he whispers, leaning in until their noses almost touch, "with everyone _but_ you," he finishes with his own cruel smirk.

"What happened to 'forsaking all others'? Just couldn't keep your promises anymore?" Sylar shrinks back as though her words have the power to physically burn him. It's a powerful strike to his pride and honor. "Do it!" she screeches at him with all the breath left in her body. "Just fucking do it and kill me already!"

Tears freely flow down her cheeks for the first time in more years than he cares to remember. He starts to reach for her to offer comfort out of some long forgotten impulse, but draws back. This is something they need. "Until death do us part," he smirks, flipping her the finger with those very words imprinted upon it in a motion that insinuates a gesture only they would recognize as being crude. Her body drops to the ground with more force than necessary, and the fight is on.

Claire screams of her hatred for him while they trade blow for relentless blow. Her unrestrained fury, warm once more instead of icy, sparks something that has been lost between them. Passion.

"At least I know you can still feel _something, _you cold, unforgiving bitch!"

"It's your fault! You failed us! You failed us, and Noah died! It's all because of you! All your fault!"

"You're not the only one that lost him, Claire! He was my son too! You shut me out!"

Their argument goes on, gaining heated momentum as they crash against one another in battle. The ground cracks apart, and all ill-fated structures splinter to pieces from the force of their impacts. Random fires light the path of their embittered encounter as destruction rains down on them. Blood spatters in impossibly long arches over every surface.

Sylar pins her up against a pole with a metallic spike protruding from her chest. She drives her trusty blade deep into his gut with a vicious twist. Both exhausted from their collisions and exerting themselves for air with grotesque gurgles, they slump together, heaving.

"I'm sorry." His voice cracks in her neck. "I'm sorry I failed you. I'm so sorry…" Hot trails of saline color pale lines through the blood caked on his face.

Claire runs her fingers through his disheveled hair, lacing a crown to lift his face to hers. She doesn't fight him when his lips search for hers, ghosting over one another to give pause before crashing together in desperation. "I'm sorry I left you all alone," she sobs, breaking down around him. "I - I don't… I don't hate you."

"Is it too late to start over?"

"We still have forever."

He doesn't waste anymore time reveling in the aftermath. He rips away the remnants of their clothing, sending the tattered shreds to the ground before hiking her thighs around his hips. They don't even bother to remove the implements impaling them, eagerly finding their fingers entwined. With blood, sweat, and tears they renew their vows in hopes of new beginnings, of healing more than a little surface damage.

"I'll never lie to you, or betray you. I'll never abandon you," he pants against her neck, moving within her.

"I'll never forsake you," she groans into his lips, wrapping her arms around his shoulders to pull him close.

"I'll never lead you into the hands of your enemies. I'll never keep secrets from you. I'll never let anyone else hurt you."

"I'll make sure that you're never lonely again," she replies.

"I'll always come back for you," he grunts between gritted teeth, losing his control.

"I'll always be there for you," she promises as they drop any semblance of rhythm or time. The slow burn becomes a wild fire that threatens to consume them both.

"I love you," he gasps into the tangles of her hair, pace growing frantic. "I love you. I love you. I love you," he chants in whispers like a lover's prayer. "I'll always love you." It's a solemn promise, and he keeps his promises.

"I missed you."

"I missed you too."

**To be continued…**


	5. Acceptance

**Part V: Acceptance**

* * *

><p><strong>2616<strong>

"I managed to find something interesting today," he whispers with a smug grin to curl the edge of his lips as he jumps down into the trench beside her. Shadows don't favor his features. In this light the cruelty in his eyes is plain to see amongst jagged edges and sharp angles. "I think I can make it work again," he mumbles tugging some random mechanical gizmo from his bag. The pieces mean nothing to her, a foreign language that will be twisted into a master work of art under the manipulations of his knowing fingers.

Curious, she delves into the depths of his treasure trove while he mindlessly rambles about the benefits of whatever device is spinning devious intentions in his imagination. A tattered book with soggy pages written in a dialect she doesn't remember, clinking canisters of antibiotics worth trading for supplies in the latest of apocalyptic wars, miscellaneous bits of ammunition, and semi-dry ration packets all clutter the insides of his haul. Something shiny catches her eye and she fetches a pristine mirror with ornately colored butterflies on the handle. A faint smile crosses her lips. Butterflies have been extinct for nearly three hundred years giving testament to exactly how old the vanity glass is.

"I brought that for you," she hears him mumble in the darkness. Claire is about to thank him when she sees her own reflection for the first time in decades. Soft curves of eternal youth with a flawless complexion stare back at her. It's a face she hates. Not because of the lack of lines and crinkles, but because it's a set of features that do not belong to her anymore. Only her eyes tell the truth, harsh and cold with the reality of forever. Incoming mortar rounds sound just beyond the line of barricades and neither so much as blink.

Replacing the mirror, another item is discovered lurking, hidden carefully within a pocket like a dirty little secret. Plush blue fabric, slightly stained with a spatter of dark blood. It's a sock. A small child's sock. Sylar swallows thickly and she can see his expression in her mind's eye, thoughts tumbling with the ghost that passes heavily between them.

"I don't remember him anymore," she chokes out in a sigh, sinking deeper into the mud.

"He had your smile. My eyes." Shells graze the top of the trench line, zipping just over their heads and splattering more mud over them.

"Do you remember everything?"

"No. Not as much as I should, but the important stuff… I try to. Sometimes if I think about it hard enough I can remember things I haven't thought about in centuries." His arm snakes around her trembling shoulders, pulling her closer to his side. Rain _pits_ and _pats_ around them, the low rumble of his voice and the steady thumping time of his heart lulling to her sleep while he spins tales of a lost son in her ears. They have no right to lean on one another as they do.

**2813**

It isn't the smell of death or the guttural gurgles of tainted airways that capture her attention. It isn't the seeping of blood from gaping wounds or the fear in their eyes that holds her enthralled. It isn't the spectacle of mouths gasping in silent screams. No. Death can only ever be a gift, a blessing placed upon ungrateful mortals. _Their_ gift for they have become the reapers of men's souls on harbinger's wings. But today something is different. Something has changed.

The lazy flick of a wrist. The look of boredom and mild amusement on his face. A flash of brown eyes glazing with the onset of death. There is something familiar about this. Something she has seen before. Clusters of synapses fire throughout her brain matter, her own power of regeneration triggering the reconstruction of times long forgotten. Nathan. This is how her biological father was killed. No. Not killed, _murdered_. Murdered by the very man that she has shared a bed with for the last eight hundred years. The same man she had promised that very day to spend the rest of her life trying to kill.

Her father, mother, friends, _Peter_… faces thought lost to the annals of history rip by the shades of her eyelids. He had abducted her, manipulated her to kill the people she loved most, and then held her captive until she could no longer remember any other way of life than that by his side.

Sylar glances over his shoulder and asks if she's alright. Claire lies to him for the first time and he knows. He won't say anything about it, but they both know what has just happened. She'll have to wait until the lies become truth because she has a promise to keep.

**3013**

The harsh reality of centuries beyond their time turn the world around them until they no longer understand it. Empires risen and toppled. The climatic shift of vast deserts into the deepest jungles only to dissolve back into sands again. Comets and hurricanes, tectonic drifts, and solar flares. The approach of an ice age that sent untold numbers of mortals to their frosty graves. Maybe even an Armageddon. They have watched all manner of man-made and natural chaos reign, hand in hand without falter.

She watches over him while he sleeps, tracing the planes of an unchanging face. A smile lifts the corner of his mouth announcing that he's more awake than she thought. Laughter ensues when he rolls over on her to attack all of the ticklish spaces he knows too well. They have no right to be as comfortable together as they are.

Sylar springs out from the shadows of a side passage to surprise. Her shrill screams are only to humor him. She hasn't really screamed in the nearly four hundred years since the world wars finally came to an end, bringing a lasting peace to all of the nations united beneath them. A peace that _they_ fought for and have carefully maintained. And yet, this stubborn example of a man creating goose bumps over flushing skin has become much the same brand of tyrant that they had strived to overthrow all those cycles ago. If power corrupts, then absolute power corrupts absolutely, and he has had a millennium to become all powerful.

In their age bashful propriety and courtesy have lost their value. Why should they give heed to opinions as fleeting as their creators? Servants hurry to pass, blushing and turning their faces, politely ignoring the disgrace of roving hands and shameless groans as he makes love to his wife against the rough stone. A thousand years at his side and he still sparks thoughtless sensation that burns from the inside outward. Perhaps a man that can continue to breed that level of passion after so long a time can't be _that_ bad_. _

_Fungus, _she muses to herself with genuine mirth. _He's the fuzzy little fungus in the Petri dish of my heart._

But he is terrible. A ruthless king that revels in the fear and blind obedience of his subjects. She watches from the shadows as he holds court with a humbled man selected by the people to seek mercy. Her eyes turn downcast with shame as another head flops over the floor. The death of such a delegate will mean war. A war where the children playing just outside of their castle walls, blissfully ignorant in their youth, will likely die. Pangs of regret accompany those thoughts. Claire has finally had enough of death. It all leaves a sour taste in her mouth.

He doesn't even look for her approach before he extends his hand out to her. Their fingers intertwine as naturally as they always have, and together they stand as the immortal gods they have become. Hades and his Persephone, cold and cruel. But after one thousand years at his side, _she_ is not the one that has become complacent. _She _is not the one that has forgotten. He has no right to trust her as he does.

"I love you," she whispers in his ear.

12,000 months. 52,000 weeks. 365,000 days. 8,760,000 hours. 525,600,000 minutes. 31,536,000,000 seconds.

In one thousand years she has never confessed her love for him. And it is the truth. It only took a little over four hundred years to forgive him, but just as he predicted, after a thousand she has come to love him. Claire has accepted that.

His eyes open wide and there is something akin to fear haunting those hellish depths because where hate begins their tale, love completes it. For all his power he is helpless against her as the blade sinks into flesh that gives no indication of the strength it wields. She has bided her time well, watching, waiting. A thumb chases the tear streaming down her cheek and she can almost hear the words in his sigh. "Shh. Don't cry." After all, Claire only kills the ones she loves.

"I love you," she whispers to him again, sealing the condemnation with a parting kiss. Astonished faces openly gawk at her from where she stands over her fallen counterpart. Words have no place here; only wide-eyed wonder for the queen that has sacrificed her king. Her everything. They'll say that it was done in the name of peace. They'll say that she was the angel sent to deliver them from the claws of the devil. They'll sing songs and rejoice for her. And then they will forget. That is the nature of time and man.

Two graves are dug, dark and deep into the earth of an undisclosed location that shall remain unmarked. One soul, and one soul alone shall know of their resting place lest he be resurrected and reign once more. Tears trickle steadily down the sides of her face as he disappears beneath the layers of time. Not tears of grief, sadness, or pain, but welcome relief. Her burden has been lifted and her promise upheld. It's finally over.

There is nothing left to see. No places left unexplored. No more adventures to join, or destinies to fulfill. Everyone is a perfect stranger that has been met a hundred times before, and every meal, every wine, every tick, and endless tock of time has become a repetitive chore. She has no patience for others that are incapable of understanding her in their naivety, or for potential lovers that do not already know what she needs. She finds herself weary to exert the energy it would take to bond with anyone else when they will only pass in the insignificant blink of an eye. In a bitter twist of irony, fate has left her no time to waste, and no freedom to taste. Like light chasing the darkness, winter giving birth to spring, and death following life they are a matching set, unique in all the verse. And one cannot exist without the other.

She won't even be able to sleep without the comfort of his ever present pulse drumming along in perfect sync with her own eternal heart, the coinciding rush of brimming veins filling her ears, or the rhythmic chorus of snores and sighs in the basking heat of his familiar body. Because that's the way he programmed her to be. Because he knew what he was doing all along; wearing her down.

Claire spreads her arms wide to feel the gentle breeze prickle over her skin leaving goose bumps behind. She takes her last breath, sucking the cool misty air into her lungs, and exhales in a long cleansing stream. Closing her eyes there is only one face to see. "Until death do us part."

There is no pain when the spike enters her skull, shutting her down. No guiding hands, or blinding light from heavens beyond; only darkness because there is no true death to be had. But they can sleep, together forgotten in a world that will continue to revolve and change around them. Claire spent a thousand years at his side, and she'll spend a thousand more as a vigilant guardian of his power which no man has a right to know. A silent sentinel. Watching. Waiting.

Sylar kept his promises, and so did she.

**The end.**


End file.
